


Birds of a Feather

by framboise



Series: A Dæmon Bestiary of Westeros [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Cunnilingus, Daemon Touching, Daemons, Dark-ish, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, POV Outsider, Power Dynamics, Pseudo-Incest, Secret Relationship, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: When a serving girl hides in the library of the Eyrie she observes a curious scene - for the Lord Protector and his daughter are studying their books as is customary, and yet their dæmons are not acting like those of a father and daughter should...





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of standalone canon-divergent His Dark Material AUs of various pairings.
> 
> This story takes place several years into Sansa's time in the Vale when she is in her late teens.
> 
> if you want visuals, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/175647593032/when-a-serving-girl-hides-in-the-library-of-the)

 

 

Most of the servants of the Eyrie, whose families have for generations scurried through its tall towers, have birds for dæmons, such that the air outside the windows of the kitchens and the servants quarters are often thick with the flurry of wings. Sparrows, thrushes, starlings, wrens, and dunnocks belonging to the weary servants inside seek a glimpse of the clouds scudding across the sky and of the heavens that shine through at dusk or dawn; and coast the gusts of wind that race up the towers of the Eyrie, careful not to catch one of the stronger blasts of air that might stretch their connection to their human to a painful limit – for everyone remembers the tale of the serving boy with the newly-settled sparrow dæmon who was thrown so high in the air by a gale that boy and dæmon were separated and how, out of grief, the boy fell to his death from a window, his sparrow plummeting afterwards, her little wings tucked tight to her body so that she might reach him before he hit the ground, so that boy and bird might meet their deaths as one.

Thus it was a surprise when the serving girl called Lorra, whose family had served the Lords of the Eyrie for countless years, had a dæmon who settled not as a bird, but as a stout, with a coat of rich brown and a perfect white fur belly, its pelt as soft and fine as the ermine trim that only ladies could afford to wear.

Her mother had grumbled about her daughter's airs and pretensions to a grander station than the one given to her by the hard toil of her forebears, who had worked their way up from mucking out shit in pigpens to serving lords and ladies in the far finer surroundings of solars and bedchambers, wearing the faded castoffs of their masters instead of clothes that were barely a step up from sacks.

 _It's not enough that you embroider frivolous designs on your sleeves_ , her mother had sniffed, _but now you pretend you have a fur collar too_ , she said, nodding towards Lorra's daemon, Denys, who had curled about her neck, his small face peeking out from behind her tail.

Lorra had flushed red and argued back with her mother, getting a slap for her rudeness and knowing that the only reason she was so indignant at what her mother said was because she knew it to be true - she _did_ like to pretend that Denys was a fur collar, and feel the brush of his coat against her neck and picture herself the lady of some grand house lazing about with trays full of sweets, waited upon by dozens of her own servants, with a handsome lordly husband who was nothing at all like the serving boys, being tall and courtly and sweet-smelling. Denys himself did not mind pretending to be a collar for he said that Lorra's neck was a warm enough place to perch, and he liked the stories she whispered to him whenever they worked tidying an empty room or lay awake at night daydreaming instead of sleeping.

This habit has not left Lorra, though she is of an age to wed now, and nor has the dreams of a better life than the one she has been given, and the pride in the handsomeness of her dæmon next to the other serving girls' twittering birds with their dull-coloured feathers. Perhaps some knight or young lord might visit and be entranced by her and Denys, might wish to marry her, she dreams, perhaps they would look at her with wonder in their eyes instead of the leer that was the only type of reaction girls like her got from men above their own standing. And when she is called upon to retrieve trays of food from the library, or to dust its shelves, she cannot help sitting down with one of the many books of songs, running her finger along the illuminations, sighing over the knights in their gleaming armour with their tiny painted mouths pink like petals and majestic dæmons standing proudly by their sides.

It is on one of these occasions, when she has sat herself in a windowseat of the library for just a moment, hiding herself behind its heavy velvet curtain, when the door to the library opens with a hushed creak and two people enter, thus trapping her in place lest someone discover the liberty she has taken with books that were not meant for the likes of her.

It is the Lord Protector and his bastard daughter who have entered, she sees, peeking out through the slim gap between the curtains, and as Alayne glides towards the central table, in one of the fine navy gowns whose elegant simplicity Lorra envies, their dæmons flutter about the shelves of the library, and Lord Baelish lingers by the door, locking it and pocketing the key.

Lorra feels her heart kick in her chest, knowing that she is now locked in too. She leans back against the window so that she does not accidentally nudge the curtains, and prays that the dæmons will not think of using this window to fly from when there are so many others to choose. Denys's tail is quivering and Lorra strokes it as his tiny black eyes stare up at her with a small measure of reproach. Denys is more circumspect than she is, warier. He ponders that it comes from being an animal made for woody undergrowths and not tall swaying towers, but she is happy for it because he has, up until now, guided her free of trouble.

Lord Baelish has retrieved several books from the shelves and stacked them before his daughter who has taken a seat on the leather studded chair before the table, her skirts spilling out onto the floor, her smiling face turned upwards to her father.

Alayne is very beautiful and 'tis said that her mother must have been a famed beauty herself, for how else could such an unremarkable face such as that belonging to Lord Baelish produce two eyes as blue as sapphires, cheeks pale as the snow that dusts the mountains surrounding the Eyrie, and a perfect rosebud mouth.

"Are you well, sweetling?" Lord Baelish asks warmly.

"I am, father," his daughter replies as her dæmon, Lysander, lands on her outstretched arm.

Alayne has a snowy owl for a dæmon; with feathers that melt from pure white to white tipped with rich silver, like the patterns of some beautiful gown; a little black beak; softly furred feet that hide large black talons; and startling blue eyes just like his human.

Lysander's regal bearing marks him as the dæmon of a lady, and next to the small brown birds of the servants his size is notable. Lorra has heard that Lord Baelish has commented to dinner guests that Alayne has an owl for a dæmon because of her wits and learning, and Lorra's friends all agree that it is a mark of Lord Baelish's respect and love for her that he values her brain and not just her beauty. Though Alayne is of an age to wed like Lorra - though of course, her suitors are lords and heirs and great knights, not serving boys and visiting grooms - her father still tutors her and the two of them spend much time together in his solar as he teaches and tests her.

And though Alayne seems like the very measure of a well-bred lady to Lorra, despite her birth, Lorra's friend Talia, who ferries the water for Alayne's many baths, has said that her father still chastises Alayne from time to time for being wilful, that Talia has seen the marks of his concern on her backside and thighs, the bruises from his hands and the welts from the rings upon those hands.

And yet Lorra can see no hint of his disapproval now, as he stands beside his daughter's chair and she recites from the large book propped open before her, his own dæmon, Falena - a blue mockingbird whose chest is white as a cloud, and who has a tail of a rich blue whose colour shifts from the stormy blue of a churning brook rushing down from the mountaintops in spring, to the deep blue of a sky at dusk, to the rich colour of a rare piece of lapis lazuli - flying down to sit on top of the stack of books.

Lorra has always thought Lord Baelish handsome, despite what the others say about his small face and slim form; she likes how neat he is, how his clothes are so very fine and his manners impeccable, and she thinks his dæmon is beautiful too, though Denys does not agree.

Once, a few years after she settled, Lord Baelish came upon Lorra while she was tidying a guest bedchamber and as he retrieved a stack of letters mislaid by the previous guest, he had glanced at Denys around her neck and murmured in his soft voice, _what a lovely dæmon_ , and she had stood there gormless with a flushed pride as he left the room, while Denys bristled strangely and Falena glided out after her human.

Lorra had hoped that he might talk to her again, that he might notice her, but he never has. Lord Baelish does not act like many lords, the other servants agree, he does not leer at them or grope them when he is drunk, nor have them serve him while he has his cock out, like Talia said her last master used to all the time before she took up a position at the Eyrie, her own robin dæmon recommending her to the older servant who hired her.

The book Alayne is reading from is dull to Lorra's mind, about grain and its storage and trade, but Lord Baelish is rapt with attention, his eyes fixed upon his daughter's face as his body leans towards her.

 _Good_ , he murmurs when Alayne pauses to take a breath and glances up at him, _do you see the importance of the marches now_ , he comments and his daughter nods and he tweaks her chin with his fingers.

At the next pause in her reading he asks her about ship's ballast, of all things, and shipowner insurance, and Lorra is surprised that a bastard girl might need to know all these things. What has the trade of grain and choice of _ballast_ got to do with running her future husband's household? She is not to be a merchant or a sailor, Lorra thinks with confusion. Perhaps there is a different meaning to what they are saying though, perhaps it is like a riddle that someone cleverer than her might be able to fathom.

The book is exchanged for one even larger, Lord Baelish reaching past his daughter to the stack as Lysander takes flight for a moment, opening his large wings and swooping from corner to corner of the room before returning to her side.

Alayne is reading about orchards now, about fruit propagation and how different species of fruit trees fare with the seasons, and Lorra is starting to feel restless, wondering how long this lesson and its boring topics might go on for. Can they not speak of more refined things, like jewels and gowns and feasts, she wonders idly as Denys pads back and forth along the window seat, pausing to lean against the window and peer out at the clear, blustery day.

As Alayne reads, she holds one hand palm upwards on the table next to the book, fingers lightly curled like the petals of an opening flower, and Lorra watches with surprise when, as Lord Baelish turns the next page of the book, his dæmon hops into Alayne's hand and she cups the bird gently as she says something to her that Lorra cannot hear.

Humans and dæmons of close family members may touch one another of course, but there is something about the scene in front of her that unnerves Lorra. And then she watches with horror as Alayne clasps her fingers tightly together, trapping the dæmon, _squeezing_ her, as Lord Baelish lets out a gusting grunt of a sound.

Alayne lets opens her hand and Falena flies out, fluttering about her head, landing on her shoulder and pressing her little beak to Alayne's cheek.

Perhaps the daughter was so entranced by her reading that she mistook herself, Lorra thinks, aghast, her heart beating in her chest as Denys scrabbles nervously around her own lap. Perhaps she is mistaken and Alayne did not actually _squeeze_ the dæmon.

Lysander glides upwards to perch on Lord Baelish's shoulder now, looking so natural there it is as if he belongs to him and not Alayne. Lorra watches as Lord Baelish strokes a finger down the feathers of Lysander's back, Alayne shuffling in her seat beside them. Then Lysander hops to land in the crook of Lord Baelish's arm and the lord curls his hand up to scratch at the owl's ruff and Lorra sees Alayne clutching tightly at the edge of the table, while Falena walks along her shoulders.

Lorra looks down at Denys as he looks back at her, stroking along his back to comfort him, whispering a heartfelt _sorry_ for the both of them being trapped here – here where the air feels thick with a strange kind of menace, here where human and dæmon are acting too intimate for any measure of propriety.

When she glances back up, Lord Baelish has stepped out of view but Lorra can still see his dæmon, and Alayne's dæmon too, the both of them lying close together on top of the pages of the open book that Alayne is reading, her head dipped low now, tendrils of raven curls escaping from her nape. As she watches, Lysander falls on his back and Falena starts to groom him, nudging her beak through the owl's feathers, burrowing into the ruff of his neck as the owl's claws curl and retract and he trills a sound that makes Lorra blush red to her hairline.

She is sure that this is not how dæmons belonging to fathers and daughters should behave, but perhaps she is just mistaken, perhaps they are simply closer than most because of the early loss of Alayne's mother. Perhaps this is how dæmons belonging to lords and ladies act when they are in private, she thinks, unconvincingly.

There is another sound on top of the burble of the two dæmons, a wet sound like kissing that Lorra cannot understand.

She shifts onto her knees on the windowseat, craning her neck to look through the gap at the far end of the curtains. Alayne is sitting in front of the table reading, her father nowhere to be seen.

But something is not quite right, the shape of Alayne's skirts looks _wrong_ and when the girl drops a hand to her lap, Lorra realises with horror that there is someone _there_ , underneath her skirts, and now she sees the legs of Lord Baelish in the gloom underneath the table, and now she knows exactly what that sound is.

Lorra clutches a hand tightly over her mouth as Denys scrambles up to circle himself around her neck, the both of them feeling sick with horror.

And yet she cannot look away as the hump of a head moves, as Alayne leans back in her chair and burrows her hand underneath her skirts, gripping onto the man beneath so tightly that Lorra can see the flex of her pale forearm.

On the table, Lysander now has Falena tight in the grip of his powerful claws, like he has caught her, while the mockingbird chirps plaintively, and now Falena is flying free, grooming Lysander's outstretched wings, fluttering her own wings as she circles him and pecks at him.

It is a dance too intimate for Lorra to see and yet watch she does as Lord Baelish emerges from his daughter's skirts with bruised lips and a chin sheened wet and hoists her up onto the table, shoving the books aside and lifting her skirts, setting his mouth _there_ between her legs as Alayne clutches her fingers tightly in his hair and writhes, letting out muffled moans and sobs from between her bitten lips, bucking her hips as he holds her down tightly, one arm banded across her waist and another digging into the meat of her thigh hard enough to bruise; just as Falena sits on Lysander's chest, wings raised, claws dug deep.

Lorra shivers and shakes, feeling as if she might vomit as father and daughter perform this profane scene, as Alayne's voice goes high and she covers her mouth with one hand, as Lord Baelish's head works rhythmically between her thighs, hungry noises escaping and echoing against the shelves of the deserted library.

As Alayne peaks, her back arches and Lord Baelish's hands reach up to squeeze her breasts through her gown, and then it is over and she is panting, smiling up at the ceiling so wickedly as her father emerges with tufted hair from her skirts and flips them down again to cover her thighs. She sits up on her elbows, looking utterly debauched despite being fully-clothed, her lips red from biting them with her own teeth.

"Your hair," she murmurs in a throaty voice.

He pats it down with a careful hand. "Better?" he asks with a smirk and she nods and looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

Lord Baelish retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his mouth and chin, before folding the handkerchief again and sliding it back inside his surcoat, his neat motions almost more obscene to Lorra than what she has seen before.

He helps Alayne to sit up and cups her face in his hands, stroking a thumb across her chin. "What do you say now, hmm?" he murmurs in a wicked voice.

"Thank you, father," his daughter says, her cheeks flushed pink with pride and pleasure.

"A reward for all your hard work," he replies and bends to kiss her flush on her mouth, a wet kiss, an embrace between lovers, and then he steps back, his hands behind his back once more, Falena flying up to perch on his shoulder as Lysander takes flight, swooping over the tops of the shelves like she is hunting for tiny scurrying mice below her.

Lorra is frozen, her heart thumping at the sordid scene as each time she closes her eyes she sees it again, the daughter on the table, her father pinning her down as he ravishes her with a hungry mouth, their dæmons grappling with one another on the open pages of the book.

"I believe that your seamstress has been kept waiting for far too long now," Lord Baelish says, "run along now, sweetling, and I shall see you later in my solar to test you on today's lessons."

The drawl in his voice seems to promise more of the same kind of _lesson_ that Lorra has just observed. She does not want to think about the two of them sating their unnatural lusts in hidden spots about the keep, she does not want to picture all that might happen behind the locked doors of the lord's private rooms, and she closes her eyes tightly as she hears two sets of footsteps walk towards the door, the smooth turn of the key opening the lock, and the soft sound of the door closing again as they leave.

She opens her eyes and waits, heart pounding, Denys up on his hindlegs at the edge of the windowseat, ready to hurry out with her and back to the familiar bustle of the servant's quarters. But before she can make the decision to move, the curtains shift slightly, as if in a breeze, and a voice speaks from above her.

"A curious thing," Lord Baelish's dæmon remarks in her silvery voice, and flies free from her perch on the edge of the curtains as her human pulls them rudely open and finds Lorra where she _should not be_.

Her voice is trapped in her throat, all her apologies and weeping pleas for forgiveness silenced. She can only sit there, shaking and cold, Denys draped around her neck and hiding his face in her hair, as Lord Baelish smiles down at her.

"Ah, the serving girl with the lovely dæmon," he says, tilting his head, "the one whose pelt would make the most delightful fur trim," and then he reaches a finger to _touch_ Denys, to stroke his tail, as girl and dæmon cower and cry out at the violation.

He takes his hand back as Falena flutters down to land on his shoulder and stare at them too.

"A curious thing indeed to have a dæmon that cannot fly when one lives in such tall towers," Lord Baelish remarks, voice smooth, manner easy, as Lorra weeps and cowers away from him. "It must be quite dangerous for the both of you when the household moves down to the Gates of the Moon for winter," he says and she hears the threat behind his words. "It is a wonder that a gust of wind has not plucked such an inquisitive creature from an open window before. You must be careful, Lorra," he says, clucking his tongue, "lest some grave accident befalls your dæmon. Will you do that for me, will you be careful?" he asks.

"Yes, my lord," she weeps, holding Denys tightly in her arms. She shall never ever tell anyone of what she has seen, never _ever_. For she knows that Lord Baelish and his dæmon will always be watching.

"Good," he says with a smile. "And perhaps it is not wise either to hide in rooms that do not belong to you," he adds and then motions a hand for her to leave and she staggers off the windowseat and runs out of the room, almost tripping on her skirts as she races along the corridors crying, and then slows her pace as she nears the kitchens, wiping her eyes as Denys returns to her neck, quietening her shuddering breath and pretending to those who ask her how she fares that she has simply stubbed her toe.

 

As the weeks and moons pass, Lorra works hard and keeps her head down, never lingering in a solar or bedchamber or the library for longer than she has to, hurrying in and out quickly. She tries not to ever glance at Lord Baelish and his daughter when she attends them at feasts and dinners, when she serves them and tidies their rooms, but her eyes cannot help but be drawn to them out of sick fascination, noticing now a sordid undercurrent to their interactions, spying occasional tiny red marks of claws and pecking beaks upon both their necks and hands, noticing how their dæmons linger much closer than they ought to.

And when she does watch them, when her eyes still catch on the jewels and fine clothes – on the furs – that Alayne wears, sometimes she sees Lord Baelish looking back and her chest goes cold with horror.

Some moons later, when a young man who owns a small farm near Longbow Hall and has a mutt for a dæmon, travels to the Eyrie to meet with his brother who works in the stables, and takes a fancy to Lorra, flirting with her awkwardly in the kitchen gardens, staring at her from across the yard, she does not dissuade him. And when he asks for her hand, for her to leave the fine corridors of the keep and live on his tiny farm on the edge of the woodlands, to tend his fields and meagre flock with him, on lands where there will be room for Denys to scamper freely, she gladly agrees, even though he has a plain face and rough manners.

It is not a love match on her side and yet by the time they arrive at their new home, she is in love with him - with the tender, reverent way he touches her at night; with his snorting laugh; with how kind he is to Denys and how protective his dæmon is of the both of them.

Denys no longer looks out of place in his new home, his brown coat a perfect camouflage in the woods, and Lorra welcomes the chance to work for none but her husband, to not have to bow and scrape herself before her betters, to never feel dizzy when she looks at the horizon. And when the weary working day is done, she spends her nights sitting by the fire in the lap of her husband, telling him stories she has heard about fantastical lands and listening to him sing of great romances that she no longer envies.

And when her husband tells her the news he has heard - that the Lord Protector is now Warden of the North, and that he has wed the girl who once pretended to be his daughter - it does not make her feel any better about the scene she saw, about the names they called each other in private, and she is glad that the both of them now reside in lands she will never have a cause to visit, that she will no longer have to fear the beady eyes of a mockingbird upon her back, nor startle at wings beating in the air above her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/175647593032/when-a-serving-girl-hides-in-the-library-of-the)


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